Mrs. Falchion Part 14

Thereupon the bookmaker insisted on the aide-de-camp accepting the cigar-case, and gave him his visiting-card. The aide-de-camp lost nothing by his good-humoured acceptance, if he smoked, because, as I knew, the cigars were very good indeed. Bookmakers, gamblers and Jews are good judges of tobacco. And the governor's party lost nothing in dignity because, as the traps wheeled away, they gave a polite little cheer for Mrs. Falchion. I, at first, was fearful how Belle Treherne would regard the gaucheries of the bookmaker, but I saw that he was rather an object of interest to her than otherwise; for he was certainly amusing.

As we drove through Aden, a Somauli lad ran from the door of a house, and handed up a letter to the driver of my trap. It bore my name, and was handed over to me. I recognised the handwriting. It was that of Boyd Madras. He had come ash.o.r.e by Hungerford's aid in the night. The letter simply gave an address in England that would always find him, and stated that he intended to take another name.

CHAPTER IX. "THE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS"

News of the event had preceded us to the 'Fulvia', and, as we scrambled out on the s.h.i.+p's stairs, cheers greeted us. Glancing up, I saw Hungerford, among others, leaning over the side, and looking at Mrs.

Falchion in a curious cogitating fas.h.i.+on, not unusual to him. The look was non-committal, yet earnest. If it was not approval, it was not condemnation; but it might have been slightly ironical, and that annoyed me. It seemed impossible for him--and it was so always, I believe--to get out of his mind the thought of the man he had rescued on No Man's Sea. I am sure it jarred upon him that the band foolishly played a welcome when Mrs. Falchion stepped on the deck. As I delivered Miss Treherne into the hands of her father, who was anxiously awaiting us, Hungerford said in my ear: "A tragedy queen, Marmion." He said it so distinctly that Mrs. Falchion heard it, and she gave him a searching look. Their eyes met and warred for a moment, and then he added: "I remember! Yes, I can respect the bravery of a woman whom I do not like."

"And this is to-morrow," she said, "and a man may change his mind, and that may be fate--or a woman's whim." She bowed, turned away, and went below, evidently disliking the reception she had had, and anxious to escape inquiries and congratulations. Nor did she appear again until the 'Fulvia' got under way about six o'clock in the evening. As we moved out of the harbour we pa.s.sed close to the 'Porcupine' and saw its officers grouped on the deck, waving adieus to some one on our deck, whom I guessed, of course, to be Galt Roscoe.

At this time Mrs. Falchion was standing near me. "For whom is that demonstration?" she said.

"For one of her officers, who is a pa.s.senger by the 'Fulvia'," I replied. "You remember we pa.s.sed the 'Porcupine' in the Indian Ocean?"

"Yes, I know that very well," she said, with a shade of meaning.

"But"--here I thought her voice had a touch of breathlessness--"but who is the officer? I mean, what is his name?"

"He stands in the group near the door of the captain's cabin, there. His name is Galt Roscoe, I think."

A slight exclamation escaped her. There was a chilly smile on her lips, and her eyes sought the group until it rested on Galt Roscoe. In a moment she said "You have met him?"

"In the cemetery this morning, for the first time."

"Everybody seems to have had business this morning at the cemetery.

Justine Caron spent hours there. To me it is so foolish, heaping up a mound, and erecting a tombstone over--what?--a dead thing, which, if one could see it, would be dreadful."

"You would prefer complete absorption--as of the ocean?" I brutally retorted.

She appeared not to notice the innuendo. "Yes, what is gone is gone.

Graves are idolatry. Gravestones are ghostly. It is people without imagination who need these things, together with c.r.a.pe and black-edged paper. It is all barbaric ritual. I know you think I am callous, but I cannot help that. For myself, I wish the earth close about me, and level green gra.s.s above me, and no one knowing of the place; or else, fire or the sea."

"Mrs. Falchion," said I, "between us there need be no delicate words.

You appear to have neither imagination, nor idolatry, nor remembrances, nor common womanly kindness."

"Indeed!" she said. "Yet you might know me better." Here she touched my arm with the tips of her fingers, and, in spite of myself, I felt my pulse beat faster. It seemed to me that in her presence, even now, I could not quite trust myself. "Indeed!" she repeated. "And who made you omniscient, Dr. Marmion? You hardly do yourself justice. You hold a secret. You insist on reminding me of the fact. Is that in perfect gallantry? Do you know me altogether, from your knowledge of that one thing? You are vain. Or does the secret wear on you, and--Mr.

Hungerford? Was it necessary to seek HIS help in keeping it?"

I told her then the true history of Hungerford's connection with Boyd Madras, and also begged her pardon for showing just now my knowledge of her secret. At this she said, "I suppose I should be grateful," and was there a slightly softer cadence to her voice?

"No, you need not be grateful," I said. "We are silent, first, because he wished it; then because you are a woman."

"You define your reasons with astonis.h.i.+ng care and taste," she replied.

"Oh, as to taste!--" said I; but then I bit my tongue.

At that she said, her lips very firm and pale, "I could not pretend to a grief I did not feel. I acted no lie. He died as we had lived--estranged. I put up no memorials."

But I, thinking of my mother lying in her grave, a woman after G.o.d's own heart, who loved me more than I deserved, repeated almost unconsciously these lines (clipped from a magazine):

"Sacred the ring, the faded glove, Once worn by one we used to love; Dead warriors in their armour live, And in their relics saints survive.

"Oh, Mother Earth, henceforth defend All thou hast garnered of my friend, From winter's wind and driving sleet, From summer's sun and scorching heat.

"Within thine all-embracing breast Is hid one more forsaken nest; While, in the sky, with folded wings, The bird that left it sits and sings."

I paused; the occasion seemed so little suited to the sentiment, for around us was the idle excitement of leaving port. I was annoyed with myself for my share in the conversation so far. Mrs. Falchion's eyes had scarcely left that group around the captain's door, although she had appeared acutely interested in what I was saying. Now she said:

"You recite very well. I feel impressed, but I fancy it is more your voice than those fine sentiments; for, after all, you cannot glorify the dead body. Look at the mummy of Thothmes at Boulak, and think what Cleopatra must look like now. And please let us talk about something else. Let us--" She paused.

I followed the keen, shaded glance of her eyes, and saw, coming from the group by the captain's door, Galt Roscoe. He moved in our direction.

Suddenly he paused. His look was fixed upon Mrs. Falchion. A flush pa.s.sed over his face, not exactly confusing, but painful, and again it left him pale, and for a moment he stood motionless. Then he came forward to us. He bowed to me, then looked hard at her. She held out her hand.

"Mr. Roscoe, I think?" she said. "An old friend," she added, turning to me. He gravely took her extended hand and said:

"I did not think to see you here, Miss--"

"MRS. Falchion," she interrupted clearly.

"MRS. Falchion!" he said, with surprise. "It is so many years since we had met, and--"

"And it is so easy to forget things? But it isn't so many, really--only seven, the cycle for const.i.tutional renewal. Dear me, how erudite that sounds!... So, I suppose, we meet the same, yet not the same."

"The same, yet not the same," he repeated after her, with an attempt at lightness, yet abstractedly.

"I think you gentlemen know each other?" she said.

"Yes; we met in the cemetery this morning. I was visiting the grave of a young French officer."

"I know," she said--"Justine Caron's brother. She has told me; but she did not tell me your name."

"She has told you?" he said.

"Yes. She is--my companion." I saw that she did not use the word that first came to her.

"How strangely things occur! And yet," he added musingly, "I suppose, after all, coincidence is not so strange in these days of much travel, particularly with people whose lives are connected--more or less."

"Whose lives are connected--more or less," she repeated after him, in a steely tone.

It seemed to me that I had received my cue to leave. I bowed myself away, and went about my duties. As we steamed bravely through the Straits of Babelmandeb, with Perim on our left, rising lovely through the milky haze, I came on deck again, and they were still near where I had left them an hour before. I pa.s.sed, glancing at them as I did so.

They did not look towards me. His eyes were turned to the sh.o.r.e, and hers were fixed on him. I saw an expression on her lips that gave her face new character. She was speaking, as I thought, clearly and mercilessly. I could not help hearing her words as I pa.s.sed them.

"You are going to be that--you!" There was a ring of irony in her tone. I heard nothing more in words, but I saw him turn to her somewhat sharply, and I caught the deep notes of his voice as he answered her.

When, a moment after, I looked back, she had gone below.

Galt Roscoe had a seat at Captain Ascott's table, and I did not see anything of him at meal-times, but elsewhere I soon saw him a great deal. He appeared to seek my company. I was glad of this, for I found that he was an agreeable man, and had distinct originality of ideas, besides being possessed of very considerable culture. He also had that social aplomb so much a characteristic of the naval officer. Yet, man of the world as he was, he had a strain of asceticism which puzzled me. It did not make him eccentric, but it was not a thing usual with the naval man. Again, he wished to be known simply as Mr. Roscoe, not as Captain Roscoe, which was his rank. He said nothing about having retired, yet I guessed he had done so. One evening, however, soon after we had left Aden, we were sitting in my cabin, and the conversation turned upon a recent novel dealing with the defection of a clergyman of the Church of England through agnosticism. The keenness with which he threw himself into the discussion and the knowledge he showed, surprised me. I knew (as most medical students get to know, until they know better) some scientific objections to Christianity, and I put them forward. He clearly and powerfully met them. I said at last, laughingly: "Why, you ought to take holy orders."